“What Dreams May Come”
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: “What Dreams May Come”
Pairing: Mention of past Sam/Ruby. Can most easily be read as preslash Dean/Castiel.
Rating: Uhm, probably a borderline PG-13-ish, maybe (?)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Supernatural, more’s the pity (seeing as how they belong to Kripke and to the show’s writers)! What I do have is an extremely contrary muse that refuses to shut up and leave me alone . . .
Summary: Sam Winchester dreams of how the Apocalypse could have been averted, if only he’d been stronger, smarter, truer to his brother and to himself, and, to his shock, finds his dreams invaded by angels . . . including one who’s carrying more than the usual load of secrets.
Warning: This story is meant to function as a sort of continuation of season five’s first episode, “Sympathy for the Devil,” and will probably be Jossed as soon as next Thursday and the second episode (“Good God, Y’All!”) roll around, but for some reason that didn’t stop the muse from insisting it be written down.
Addendum: Apparently, I fail at editing. I’ve tried to make this story more readable by making the paragraphs shorter, but all that seemed to do was invited even more (over)long paragraphs of dialogue and response. I really do apologize for this! I’m afraid that if I keep tinkering, I’ll just make it that much worse! I’ve done what I can, to keep the paragraphs manageable in length, but I fear readers are going to just have to go for a full screen, for this, to avoid eye strain!
Author’s Notes: 1). I have no idea where this story came from. It hit me Friday, in the middle of the day, at work, and I scribbled madly until I had basically the whole thing written down. It is canon-compliant (as far as I can tell) up through the first episode of season five (and could be considered at least semi-spoilerish for the show up through that episode) and I suppose could be read as (kind of) gen, though frankly the vibe that I got from Castiel the entire time I was writing felt anything but gen.
2). Supernatural is a supremely odd show in that the main characters never seem to have (or to keep) any romantic attachments or possible romantic attachments that aren’t either broken by death or else what some would consider blasphemous/unnatural in some way. This is one of the few ’verses I consider myself a fan of that I don’t tend to seriously ship, for precisely this reason. Until very recently, there was really no one on the show to ship, except the brothers, and, while I totally get the whole “epic love story of Sam and Dean” aspect of the show, honestly, aside for certain possibilities inherent in a Sam who has, for whatever reasons, either chosen to join the demons or whose own code of ethics/morality has been severely warped by addiction to demon blood that he will no longer accept the fact that Dean’s love for him encompasses literally every part of the spectrum except for romantic love, I’ve never been able to see this as a functional romantic ship, in the context of the actual show. The brothers are a couple - are partners - in every sense of the word except the romantic one, and, as much as the show likes to play with the fact that outsiders often read their intensely close relationship as romantic, as they have no other context from their own (fairly) normal lives within which to fit such an obviously strong bond, I honestly don’t think Kripke and the writers mean for viewers to assume that the Winchester boys are actively pursuing an incestuous relationship behind closed doors and in between the scenes of the show.
This isn’t to say that I have anything against the Wincest pairing so often found in the fandom (I am an AU girl at heart and fic that actively resists cultural norms is usually my favorite kind. I’ve read some damned good Wincest fic that barely changed anything in the basic natures of the characters, as presented on the show, and some even better AU where all of the changes were beautifully accounted for by the aspects of the boys’ lives that differed from their lives on the show): it’s just to say that I personally consider it much more of an AU ship, when the pairing is also romantic, than a canon-compliant one. So I’ve never really considered myself to be a shipper of any particular pairing for this show, even though I tend to be a diehard OTPer (and/or whatever one might call a functional relationship with multiple partners) when it comes to my fandoms.
The (fairly) recent appearance of Castiel on the show . . . well, let’s just say that the dynamic of the show began to shift radically, from the moment he and Dean met. There are many fans of the show who have responded to this shift by pairing Dean with Castiel (I’ve seen Dastiel and Destiel both used as portmanteau couple names for the ship); however, I’ve avoided embracing this ship, mainly due to the fact that, so far, it’s (mostly) seemed to be painfully one-sided (and it disturbs the ever living crap out of me to even approach the notion of a God who would deliberately send an angel to a human, all the while knowing that the essential nature of the two beings involved could only result in pain, Dean too scarred by his life/afterlife/second life to even be able to recognize love and faith when it is offered to him and Castiel having no choice - as a creature whose sole purpose is essentially to experience love and to glorify the divine and faithfully praise God by worshiping all of His creation - but to love).
That Castiel is devoted to Dean (perhaps far too much so) I cannot even begin to argue. That Castiel . . . feels something for Dean that he should not (according to his angelic comrades-in-arms and superiors) - something that is, at the very least, highly irregular for an angel to experience towards a mere human - is also glaringly obvious, especially given the outcome of the season four finale. That Dean cannot grasp/comprehend the depth of Castiel’s attachment to him, doesn’t understand such a level of devotion to himself (seeing as how he has no faith in himself and still cannot even begin to believe that he deserved to be saved, is worthy of salvation, of being raised from Hell, much less capable of stopping the end of days) or even seem to have an inkling that there are ramifications to the fact that Castiel, as an angel of the Lord, is essentially built for faith and devotion and following and has willingly chosen to follow Dean, and is also apparently blindly oblivious to the fact that Castiel’s feelings for him have increasingly seemed to have little to do with the fact that Dean is the only one who can stop the Apocalypse and Castiel has been ordered to protect him, so that he will eventually be able to do as has been prophesied and defeat Lucifer, has also seemed pretty damn patently obvious, to me.
So (not to repeat myself or anything, but) I really have no clue where this story came from or why. I’m not sure if my subconscious is just reading something more into the season five opener than was there or if maybe I’m picking up on something that’s actually going to be following through on in some manner for the remainder of the show, but the fact remains that this story was . . . entirely unexpected, and, though it’s canon-compliant up through the season five opener, I have a strong suspicion it’s not going to remain so once the next episode has come out. So . . . readers might want to take this with a grain of salt. (In fact, freakin’ huge handfuls of salt might not be entirely out of line.) Okay?
3). Erhm, despite his ginormous tendency towards stupidly destructive levels of self-centeredness (which is, by the way, the reason I have always primarily been a Dean girl and not a Sam girl), I tend to think that Sam is the more perceptive of the brothers Winchester, when it comes to ferreting out what makes other people tick, if only because his desire to be “normal” has forced him to pay a lot more attention to the supposedly normal folks around him. I get the feeling the only reason Sam hasn’t actually noticed Castiel enough to twig to the truth, on the show, is that, first of all, the demon blood was seriously interfering with his perceptions and ability to process the things going on around him, and, second of all, his guilt and anger and shame are (sound familiar, anyone?) keeping him from truly perceiving himself, much less others around him.
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“What Dreams May Come”
Sam Winchester is dreaming, his mind filled with images of how he wishes things had gone, how he thinks they might have gone, if only he’d been stronger, smarter, truer to his brother and so to himself, had more faith and been less eager to believe the worst of his brother, to choose a demon’s sweet lies instead of Dean’s hard truths.
He pictures how events might have unfolded, if he’d taken the phone message from Dean as the wake up call it should have been, come to his sense in time to stop himself, to realize what was happening, how he was being used, and turned on Ruby, rather than continuing to listen to her lies and killing a demon’s innocent host to drain her body of its demon blood and gain the power necessary to kill Lilith, breaking the final Seal and setting Lucifer free on Earth, kick-starting Armageddon.
He dreams of the enchanted, demon-killing knife in his hand, of the way it would’ve felt, sinking effortlessly into that lying demon bitch and destroying her once and for all, freeing him of her spell. He dreams of speaking the words of exorcism, of the Latin heavy and holy, rolling off his tongue easily, naturally, as naturally as breathing, purging himself of the last of Ruby’s taint, even as he sends the child-killing demon inhabiting that poor nurse back down to Hell. He dreams of calling Dean, of calling out to Dean, to Castiel, of waiting for his brother, of discovering the truth, of going after Lilith not to kill her but just to send her back down to Hell, to trap her deep down again, to protect that last Seal and make sure that Lucifer cannot escape from his prison.
He is desperately imagining what that would have felt like, a victory not only against evil, but also those ridiculously manipulative and cruel angelic dicks, halting Armageddon in its track and leaving all the angels hanging, jonesing for an apocalypse that won’t happen. He can feel his brother’s smile, the weight of his arm slung over his shoulders, pulling him close in a rough hug that means so much more than any mere words ever could, when his dreams are invaded, inverted, turned to a nightmare, the angel Zachariah’s dirty politician’s smarmy voice contemptuously declaring, “You really are a pathetic sack of meat, aren’t you?”
The warm presence of Dean promptly vanishes from his side, the vague presence of a supportive Castiel flickering out of existence like a banished ghost, leaving him alone on a far too familiar empty stretch of highway with the suited dick sneering at him from across the road (face pale and shining and inhuman as a mask), the stolen garish orange car far too small of a barrier between them, especially as Zachariah continues to speak.
“I mean, I like to think I’m fairly open-minded - I like to give people the benefit of a doubt - but this?” The noise the angel makes isn’t quite a laugh (too low and ugly for mirth), but it gets the point across, nonetheless. “I think I’m going to have to side with Uriel on this one. You’re a delusional mud-monkey, Samuel Winchester, and the world would be better off without you in it. Pity we needed you for our plans to succeed. I honestly think it would’ve made poor Uriel’s century - maybe even millennia - to smite you into oblivion.”
Sam’s hands clench automatically, the gesture empty (even at his strongest, he couldn’t do anything to hurt an angel, the powers he had too close to demonic, only making him more vulnerable to them), the taste of dust and ashes in his mouth. He tries to growl threateningly, but the words sound thin, tinny, choked. “Get out of my head. You’re not wanted here.”
Zachariah smirks. “Do I look like I care what you want, Samuel? Do you hear me asking for permission? Castiel may have warded your physical location, but the realm of dreams is open to all. And you, my friend, are predictable, easy enough to find.”
Fury and a far too familiar sense of ignominy makes him take a step forward, around the front of the car, looming up out of the darkness, towering over the angel as if he were a human and could be intimidated by Sam’s greater height, his physical size. “I am no friend of yours!” he snarls, each word bitten off, ugly with the snarled tangle of too many dark emotions, harsh with the memory of Dean’s pain over Castiel’s loss. “Get out of here! I’m warning you - ”
“You forget yourself, Samuel. You’re nothing but a lowly human now - there’s no more demon blood in you, making you powerful, making you useful. We’re done with you. You did what we wanted - everything we wanted - and now we no longer need you. You’re of no more use to us, except possibly as a goad for that brother of yours. Are you willing to help us keep Dean in line? You might be able to earn a place in Heaven, after all, if you’re a good boy and continue being as helpful and obedient as you have been, so far. Normally, I’d say you were going to Hell for sure, when you die - Heaven tends to frown on those who permit demons to walk the Earth, after all - but maybe, if you help us get Dean to accept his role in this and allow Michael in . . . well, perhaps then we can make a deal. Be a good boy, and I might be willing to pull some strings,” the angel offers, his smile glittering, teeth shining like a predator’s display.
Rage and fear and shame flood through Sam in waves, warring for dominance of his body, but in the end it’s that gloating smile that tips him over the edge. “You stay the hell away from me, you manipulative fuck! I’d rather die than help you!”
The angel makes a tsking noise, shaking a finger at him as if he were an unruly, disobedient child. “Now, now, no need for name calling, Samuel. Although if you’re really so keen to die again, I’m sure that can be arranged,” he promises, his grin disturbingly shark-like.
A jolt of pure terror makes his knees wobble uncertainly. “Dean - ”
Zachariah shakes his head. “Your brother can’t help you here, Samuel. And why would he want to, even if he could? You’ve betrayed him at every turn. He no longer trusts you - no longer loves you. You’re nothing but a duty, a burden, to him now. Nothing but another mark of inadequacy, another sign of his failure to live up to his father’s expectations. He’s never been able to save you before. What makes you think he’s going to keep trying, after what you did?”
Weakly, he tries to retort, “My brother - ”
“Even brotherly love has limits, Samuel. And I’m fairly certain you’ve gone far enough to exhaust and shatter all of them. You’ve been so cooperative, after all: turning your back on Jake, someone you knew was an enemy and more than capable of murder, and giving him the perfect opportunity to kill you; letting Dean put himself between you and Lilith and her hellhounds, even after promising you’d save him, and getting in the way of Castiel, when he would have saved Dean, so they could kill your brother and drag his soul off to a part of Hell where time runs so quickly that Alastair and the other demons could break him and he would then break that first Seal almost before we could even finish laying siege to Hell properly, much less reach him; and then choosing to willingly accept Ruby into your life and reshape yourself in the image of the Sam she desired, once Dean was gone. That was the real kicker, you know. The deal-clincher, as it were. If you hadn’t accepted Ruby, we wouldn’t be here. Poor little orphaned Samuel. You just didn’t know how to be alone - didn’t know how to function, except as the center of someone else’s universe - did you?”
The angel neither laughs nor smiles when he asks this question. But then, he doesn’t have to. The tilt of his head - body posture alien, too still, too rigid, all incredulity, all challenging question - says everything required, with no extraneous noise necessary.
Though (unfortunately) that doesn’t keep him from rattling on.
“Never mind what harm your neediness - your selfishness - wrecked. You needed. And so you took. Always, you took. Dean - the Sword of Michael himself - died and went to Hell for your sake, Samuel. Do you realize what a gift that was? What a sacrifice he made? Do you even care what you did, to Castiel - an angel of the Lord - in choosing as you did? Castiel has all but Fallen, for Dean’s sake, because of you and your choices. He went willingly to his death, because of you. He may be back, now, but unless he has God squirreled away in his pocket, he’s never going to be accepted among his own kind again. He’s barred from Heaven now. He may as well have Fallen. And that is entirely your fault.”
Zachariah’s oily voice flows over Sam like dark water, compelling in a way that makes his blood run cold and his hands become clammy with sweat. Castiel is the only angel he’s ever wanted to listen to - the only angel he’s needed (with a distressingly soul-deep ache) to know more about, to be able to question and to understand (as if, by comprehending the angel’s nature, he could not only come to understand how Castiel had succeeded in freeing Dean from Hell, when all of Sam’s efforts failed, but grasp how the feat might be repeated, by Sam, if it were ever to become necessary) - and he’s the only angel Sam’s still interested in talking to, anymore, period. Yet, even though Zachariah’s slimey voice is nothing like the low, powerful rumble of Castiel’s velvet over gravel voice (with that slightly archaic syntax and pitch often almost eerily calm but usually also somehow warm, earnest, even comforting, in a way, despite its almost unnaturally even, tranquil tone), he finds himself unable to turn away, to cease listening, even though what Zachariah is saying is deliberately crafted to harm, every word like acid, eating away at his shields and carefully constructed layers of justifications and excuses and ever present good intentions, shredding him slowly apart, like a cay toying cruelly with a mouse, Zachariah’s lazy smile making it all too clear that he is enjoying himself, all the while.
“Samuel, you choose Ruby freely, of your own accord, and, in choosing her, you damned your world. Dean turned against us, for your sake. Castiel chose to turn against us, for your brother, because Dean couldn’t bear to let you finish becoming the monster you were so eagerly allowing Ruby to refashion you as. This is all your fault. You chose to listen to Ruby and let her tempt and beguile you into accepting the poison of demon blood within you, so you’d be strong enough to eventually break the final Seal yourself, when the time was right. You chose to go out that open door, even though you knew Dean and Robert Singer were only trying to help you, to save you from yourself. You chose to knock your surrogate father unconscious to make good your escape, so you could get to that little demon slut of yours and get your next fix of demon blood. You chose the addiction over your family, your friends, your kin. I will very surprised if Lucifer doesn’t earnestly seek to reward you,” Zachariah continues, his smile sickle-sharp and cold as tempered steel, “for such diligent treachery, such faithful betrayal, on his behalf. My brother is many things, but one thing the Morning Star does not believe in is leaving any debt unpaid. He will come for you at some point, Samuel. As swiftly as though called, he will come for you.”
Zachariah laughs (a little scuddering of dry leaves, rattling like age-desiccated bones in the first killing wind of winter), and Sam shudders, falls back a step, shoulders tucked in tight to his body, head bowed, instinctively trying to protect himself, to make himself smaller, less of a target. The eyes that follow him are frozen, barren moons, the scything smile flashing beneath them a weapon any reaper would be proud to claim. If it wouldn’t be worse, to hear and to not see the source of those poisonous words, Sam would shut his eyes. But he’s more than half afraid that, if he looks away, Zachariah will slip his skin, abandon his vessel, reveal himself as something vast and horrifically bright and, pitiless as ever, open mouth and eyes and blaze forth at him and blast him away to nothing. So he stands, quailing, trying to summon anger (trying to shield himself from further harm with his fury, distract Zachariah from his attacks by finding the strength to rage at him) and mostly failing. And he listens, helplessly, until he is drowning and freezing and burning all at once within the insidious grasp of Zachariah’s bile, as, lovingly, malignantly, the angel smugly continues to recite Sam’s sins.
“You chose to call on your powers in the fight with your brother, so you would be stronger and faster and able to defeat him, and then you chose to go out that door, to Ruby, despite his warning. You chose to bleed out that demon-infested nurse, instead of exorcizing the demon and saving the host’s life, so that you could drink all of that demon blood - and I’m rather proud of myself, for the changes I had made to your brother’s recording, altering his pathetic attempt at apologizing for naming you truly, as a monster, as you goaded him so nicely into doing, into a warning of what amounted to a declaration of war. The shame and the fear turned to anger so quickly, made it so easy for you to choose to keep going along with Ruby and continue to pollute and change yourself with more demon blood. You were so eager to believe the worst of yourself, by believing the worst of your brother and his opinion of you! Almost I think you would have chosen the same, even if all that had been done was to keep his message from ever reaching you! - even though you knew better, knew that it was wrong, knew that it would change you and there would be no going back. And then you chose to ignore Dean at the door, in the convent, even though he was yelling for you, pleading for you to stop. You chose to push harder, until you killed Lilith, even though you could feel the changes in you. In short, you chose every bad thing that you could, every step along that dark path taken of your own free will, doing everything of your own accord necessary to bring about Lucifer’s rising. Why ruin such a perfect track record now? I doubt anything you could do could possibly earn you redemption.”
Sam desperately wants to be angry, to lash out at the angel, to attack him (it’s safer, to be on the offensive. If he’s attacking, if he’s fighting, he’s not standing still for the blow, for the blade), even though a part of him - a really big part - can’t help but agree with everything that Zachariah is saying. He let Lucifer out of Hell, for God’s sake! How is he even supposed to process that, much less make up for it, make it right again? As Dean said, sorry just doesn’t even begin to cut it. Unless they can stop it, it’s the freakin’ end of days. And no matter what Dean thinks, it’s really all Sam’s fault. Hell, if this smug s.o.b. is telling truth, it’s even his fault the angels couldn’t get to Dean in time to save him from having to go to Hell, much less shed blood there and break the first Seal! Zachariah’s right, and that’s the real bitch of the thing. Sam did all of those things; he made all of those bad choices; he caused this; he freed Lucifer. That’s the simple truth. Yet, somehow, it doesn’t keep him from wanting to permanently wipe that self-satisfied gloating expression off of the angelic asshole’s face. So, snarling his defiance, he grates out, “Don’t count me out until the end. It’s not over yet. We aren’t going to let you win.”
Zachariah just smirks again, an edge of scoff to it that makes Sam’s blood boil. “We’ve already won. Your brother won’t let Lucifer win this. He’s too much of a righteous man for that. He might as well go ahead and give in now. He’s going to agree to act as Michael’s vessel, sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time.”
His fears momentarily forgotten, Sam takes half a dozen steps forward, up and across the edge of the road, crowding closer to the angel, before he can stop himself. “Why you - ”
The angel’s scornful, gloating smile turns beatific, deadly dangerous. “Are you raising your hand to me, Samuel?”
Another thread of control snaps, and he presses closer, shouting, “My name is Sam!”
“Samuel is your given name. Or would you prefer the demonic form now . . . Samael?”
He sees red at that - literally, his vision washing out alarmingly under the sweeping press of blood-soaked, pulse-pounding, whole body rage, something about the experience entirely too familiar, devastatingly, terrifyingly so, almost like those weirdly stretched taffy slow moments of painfully juxtaposed clarity and whited-out fog, just before he broke the final Seal - and he’s going for the angel before he even realizes he’s moving again.
Before he can do more than start to reach out to grab him (to press his hands close around that neck and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, throttle that expression of smug superiority and vengeful gloating and unbridled scorn off of the angel’s face forever), though, there’s a flash of actinic light, so luridly white that, for a moment, all Sam can think of Pamela and what it must have been like, to see something so awesome, so terrible, that it could burn the eyes right out of their sockets, the painful intensity of it making Sam flinch back reflexively. It only lasts for a few heartbeats, and, as the luminescence fades, Castiel appears between them, filling the space that the dazzling light had occupied, right hand outstretched, palm planted solidly, shockingly, against Sam’s chest, right over his heart, holding him effortlessly back.
“Stop!”
The order is thunderous, something of Castiel’s true angelic voice somehow bleeding through to that of his human vessel (except, is it truly a vessel anymore, if the archangels killed Jimmy, ripped him out of that body by blowing the flesh apart, in the act of destroying Castiel, and Castiel has somehow been . . . what, remade, reborn, refashioned out of the ether? The thought is confusing enough to make his head ache, even more than the edge of Castiel’s angelic voice), making Sam flinch back from the rumbling crash of noise and strange undertow of painfully high pitched squealing grind (like steal screaming down ice, torturously modulated). Sam’s still trying to blink away the afterimage of whiteness when Castiel turns away, hand dropping (leaving a spot of not quite painfully scorching heat burning against Sam’s chest, as though a branding iron heated merely to scalding and not to searing has been pressed there and not the hand of someone he knows, of a human vessel holding an angel who died in order to help Dean try to save him, to stop him from starting the Apocalypse), his other hand full of that strange, glimmering bright silver weapon that can kill angels.
“You are not welcome here. The Winchesters have been claimed by Heaven and are under my protection, in His name. Do not seek to return here or to trespass in the dreams of Dean Winchester. We will contact you, if words must be exchanged. Now begone!”
Zachariah makes a placating gesture with his hands, his smile suddenly weak, nervous. “Now, Castiel, let’s not be hasty! Aside from the possibility of using him as leverage against his brother or putting his body to use as a vessel, this boy is no longer of import to either Heaven or Hell. He’s done as he was meant to do. He made his choice and he cannot unmake it. His role in this is written, now, is sealed, is decided, is over. Don’t you think it best to - ?”
“I said that the Winchesters have both been claimed, that they are both under my protection, in His name, and so they are. Dean has need of Sam, and, so long as that remains true, he will remain a part of this. Now begone! Or do you wish to test whether this weapon’s efficacy carries over to the realm of dreams?” Castiel only demands, low voice entirely human now but quite possibly even more frightening than before, the promise of unrelenting violence in each word an even more naked threat than the weapon shining in the angel’s former angel’s? Remade angel’s? Did Castiel actually Fall, when he chose Dean over his superiors’ orders, or does his miraculous reappearance, after being exploded by those archangels, prove that he - and, by extension, Dean - had been in the right, all along? Perhaps more importantly, can the angels really bar him from Heaven, if he’s in the right?) hand.
Zachariah’s face closes, hardens, mouth turning down in a petulantly angry scowl, dark eyes shining with menace. “This isn’t over. You overstep your bounds, Castiel, and, one day, you will be called to account for all that you’ve done, all that you’ve taken on yourself!”
Castiel doesn’t quite smile, but his mouth moves in a manner that suggests the faintest sliver of a razor-sharp smile, and, even though the expression isn’t directed at him (and Castiel is an ally, a sort of friend - he chose Dean over orders, he died for Dean, to give him a chance to get to Sam - so surely to God he’s not going to turn on them now, even if Dean was too late to stop Sam from breaking the final Seal and now they’re going to have to stop the Apocalypse and defeat Lucifer after all), Sam almost falls back a step in a reflexive bid to gain enough distance to protect himself from attack. “I may be called to account for the things that I have taken upon myself, Zachariah, but it will not be by your or yours. And you would do well to keep in mind the possibility that you may just as easily find yourself called to account for the things you have chosen to do, my brother. Now go. Begone from this place and seek to trouble the Winchesters no more!”
Silently, a look of almost constipated rage on his face, Zachariah moves backwards several paces - the motion a sort of glide, more as if he were being pushed than stepping back willingly - and vanishes in a flare of white light somehow colder and less glorious than the light in which Castiel arrived.
As soon as the light has faded and they are alone, Castiel turns to him, blue eyes searching, worried, sympathetic. “Sam Winchester. Are you well?”
Sam just stares at him helplessly for several moments, torn between laughing and crying. “Am I - ? No, Castiel, I’m not all that well, as a matter of fact. I’m pretty much the opposite of well. I got hopped up on demon blood and killed Lilith - breaking the final Seal - and let Lucifer out of Hell. My brother’s never going to trust me again and I can’t even blame him. I may never be ‘well’ again.”
Castiel holds himself as he generally does - an odd mixture of sheer gracefulness and absolute stillness, like a hawk on a perch, frozen in place but able to unfurl strong wings and hurl upwards into the heavens to soar in a heartbeat - and tilts his head in that odd avian fashion of his that, for Sam, never ever fails to drive home the fact that he is an angel, not human (despite how human he may otherwise seem), confusion furrowing his brow. “Your brother has already forgiven you. It is himself he no longer trusts. Give him time. You will see.”
Sam can’t help but scoff. “Dude, I think I know Dean pretty well. If he - ”
“There are but a handful of names graven on Dean Winchester’s heart. Yours is writ largest and carved deepest. That has been so for many years and it is not likely to change at any time soon.”
There’s an oddness to the angel’s voice, an extra roughness in his tone, and it takes Sam a few beats to realize that it’s a mixture of wistful longing and bitterness, forcing the pitch of Castiel’s voice lower. He blinks, startled. “Do you - would you like that to change?”
If anything, the angel’s stiff posture becomes even more rigid, his already tranquil and remote expression becoming even more closed off. “Your question is irrelevant to the matter at hand. Did Zachariah harm you?”
Sam frowns, not appreciating the way that Castiel’s trying to dodge the question but not entirely sure he has the right to push. “Do you count mental and emotional torture as hurt?” Castiel just blinks at him, face solemn, questioning. Sighing, Sam clarifies by asking, “Is it true? Did I get in your way, when the hellhounds came for Dean? Am I the reason why you couldn’t save him from being dragged off to Hell?”
Castiel blinks again, looks down, tucks the weapon away somewhere under his ever-present trench coat, and shoves his hands into the coat’s pockets. “It is as much the fault of the garrison, for being unprepared. We knew Dean was the one. But our leaders were working against us. They wanted the Seals to be broken. They wanted this war. They would have gotten their way, even if you had not been there at the moment of your brother’s death.”
Sam’s frown becomes an outright scowl, unhappiness and anger writ large in the deepening lines of his face, though he looks down as his shoulders round into a hunch and his arms reflexively wrap around his stomach, as though to protect himself against a coming blow. “So in other words, it is my fault. All of this is my fault!”
Castiel’s gaze snaps back to his face, blue eyes intently focused. “You are not hearing me. These events were beyond your control. You could not have stopped what happened. Zachariah and the others would have done anything and everything necessary, to ensure the rising of the Morning Star. You should be focusing on how to stop the war, now that it has begun, not agonizing over ways in which you believe it could have been prevented from beginning. The past is past. It cannot be changed.”
Sam’s scowl only deepens, hazel eyes glittering catlike as he tilts his head so he can look back up at Castiel without having to straighten up.”Is that what you told Dean about Hell? Because I gotta tell ya, Cas, for a freakin’ angel of the Lord, you aren’t all that good at giving comfort. Just saying the past is past and can’t be changed, like it doesn’t even matter, doesn’t make things better! I still did all of those things and it’s still my fault Lucifer got out and - ”
Even though Sam’s voice is growing louder with every syllable, winding up to an hysterical pitch, Castiel’s voice cuts across it effortlessly, smoothly. “You are not hearing me, Sam Winchester. I do not mean to belittle your pain. But I do mean to say that you must be strong enough to move past it. Dean needs you now, more than he ever has. You must be there for him. He cannot hope to do this alone.”
Sam’s rounded shoulders pull in so tightly upon themselves and pull him so far down that he nearly looks doubled at the waist. “But all I do is hurt him. I can’t seem to do anything right. Maybe it’d be better if I weren’t - ”
“Sam. You are Dean’s brother. He chose Hell, for your sake. He has defied angels, for your sake. He loves you. He has need of you. You will be there for him. Do you understand me?”
It’s not just a teeth-jarring screech-edged whine of power blurring away the edges of Castiel’s velvet-gravel voice, this time: the words are a roar of solid power, syllables punching into him like blows, and Sam shudders as though being beaten, hands clapped to his ears as if such fragile barriers could protect the drums of his ears from being shattered. When the echoes have faded, he looks up, blinking blearily and squinting as if against a too bright light, and breathes, disjointedly, too shocked for coherency, “Jesus Christ, you - you - Dean - God, Cas!”
Castiel’s frowning so deeply that the blue of his eyes keeps vanishing in the shadows on his face. He looks taller, somehow, hands no longer in his pockets bur rather clenched tightly at his sides, body drawn up rigidly tight, as though seconds away from attack (or at least reaching out and giving Sam a good enough shaking to make the teeth rattle in his head. Which - alright, that might not be the worst idea, considering he’s bordering hysterical just now, but still - ! The idea of the angel touching him again, with such purpose, makes his skin crawl in a way not entirely unpleasant, which in turn makes him feel strangely disloyal - almost ashamed - as though he shouldn’t be thinking that it might not be so bad to have an angel of the Lord like Castiel laying hands on him, as if that would be yet another betrayal, yet another deliberate turning away from Dean, and that . . . that is just so damn bizarre that it’s no wonder he’s having a hard time catching his breath, much less stringing together words enough to make a full sentence!).
“Dean chose you as his trusted shield-mate, as his second, long ago, Sam. Why does this prospect disturb you?” Castiel’s voice is back to normal levels, the hint of brightness leaking through his skin gone, confusion evident in every word. “I do not understand your dismay. Your brother is not your keeper, but he is your protector and he has been your partner in this fight for many years, now. Have you not chosen him, again, as well?”
“That’s not - it isn’t - not a choice. Not an issue. You - you - ”
A hint of impatience leaks into the confusion, giving the raspy deep voice a hard edge. “What of me? I would have thought my choice clear, by this time.”
“Exactly. You’re - you - but you didn’t Fall. You didn’t, and - and - the archangels, they destroyed you, but you’re - you’re - here, and - and - I guess He wants you to - but I thought angels didn’t - that you couldn’t - ”
The head tilt returns with a vengeance, blue eyes glimmering at him almost warily. “Sam. I am having difficulty following your train of thought.”
The words - the accusation - You’re in love with my brother, Castiel! crowd into his consciousness, poise themselves on the tip of his tongue, make him choke on a giggle that he’s pretty sure would not only be inappropriate but would lead to howls of laughter that would disintegrate into sobs, because really, honestly, Dean? His brother, Dean? Castiel - an angel of the freakin’ Lord - and Dean? (A voice in the back of his head, a small gibbering remnant of the person he tried so hard to be, at Stanford - normal, respectable, student, ignorant of the dangers lurking in the dark corners - half laughs and half howls, circling endlessly around Chuck and literary symmetry and the symbolic appropriateness of it all, to have had Sam partnered off with a demon while Dean gets chosen by an angel.)
It’s so obvious now that Sam doesn’t understand how he didn’t see it before. Castiel’s been choosing and rechoosing Dean ever since he brought him back up from Hell. Zachariah and those other angelic pricks (and God, how wrong is it that the methods of those assholes seem to have more in common with the demons they’re supposed to be fighting against? He still can’t get over that. Angels should be better than this, dammit! They should - they should be more like Anna, more like Castiel, more like Dean, even!) And Dean . . . Dean’s been moving closer and closer to acceptance of the fact that Castiel chose him and isn’t going to stop choosing him since the day he stopped fighting so hard against the idea that Castiel actually is an angel. Cas believed in him enough to go against his superiors, enough to deliberately put himself in harm’s way and to allow those archangels to tear him to pieces, to destroy him (vessel and all), to try to give Dean time to get to Sam, to stop Sam and stop the breaking of the final Seal. Castiel did it for Dean - not because he thought it was the right thing to do or because he thought Sam deserved another chance or could still be saved - because Dean asked him to help and he couldn’t bear to refuse him, couldn’t stand to have Dean turn away from him in disgust and despair because he couldn’t bring himself to disobey orders. He did it solely for Dean.
And Sam saw the look of desolation in Dean’s eyes - the same despairing look in his eyes when he spoke of the things he did, in Hell; the same bleakness and self-hatred after Castiel regained Jimmy’s body and, instead of acting like himself and explaining what had happened or at least thanking them for attempting to guard his host, spoke sharply to Dean of not serving him and turned away; the same agony of failure and, worse, expectation, behind the physical pain, when Sam chose to go out that door, to Ruby: only worse somehow, magnified, sharpened, deepened - when they got to Chuck’s and one of Castiel’s vessel’s teeth was found caught in Chuck’s hair.
Sam saw the grief, the anguish, the sheer exhaustion that made his brother pull in on himself and start shutting down, retreating behind his masks, like after - after Dad. And then he saw the hope and soul-deep relief flash like lightning (like the same glow around Castiel, when his angelic form tries to push itself over the edges of the human vessel containing it) through Dean’s eyes, when Castiel miraculously reappeared, to protect them from Zachariah and his unquestioning angelic drones. Hell, he even saw the way Dean’s body automatically inclined towards Castiel, as though to lean against him - something he never does, not willingly, not even with Sam, not unless he absolutely has to, his body too wrecked to even pretend to be able to stand on his own - he was just too freaked out and pissed off and worried to really register it or what it meant.
Dean is starting to choose Castiel back, the same way Castiel has already chosen him.
And that . . . that is just a little bit too big - one earth-shattering revelation too many - for him, just now. Sam’s still trying to process Ruby’s betrayal, and his idiocy, and the fact that the freakin’ Devil is out of Hell now directly on account of his stupidity (God, he’s like Judas, he’s worse than Judas, he turned against his actual brother, chose a demon over Dean, and what the fuck does that say about him, about what’s wrong with him? Maybe those angelic pricks were right, after all, and he should’ve been stopped. Maybe - maybe Dad . . . except, Dean chose him. Dean believed in him. Dean - Dean still needs him, still wants him there, according to Castiel, is just pushing him away because he’s too busy blaming himself for being unable to save Sam to stop and consider the fact that this is really Sam’s fault, not his, no matter what he may say about it. It’s like - like after Hell. After Castiel brought him back and he kept acting like he was fine and didn’t remember anything. He’s still blaming himself. Still trying to protect Sam. And how completely fucked up wrong is that, that Dean could still blame himself for everything when it’s so patently obvious that it’s Sam’s fault, not his?).
Sam’s not sure he can handle this, too, on top of all that. Not yet, anyway. It’s - too big. Way too damned big. Dean’s little fling with Anna, that was one thing. She was essentially human - Fallen to Earth, reborn as human, no Grace whatsoever - and it was like all the other meaningless flings Dean’s ever had, on a case, with someone in trouble, someone in need of a little human comfort. This - this thing, with Castiel, it’s not about comfort. It’s not about Dean and his never freakin’ ending capacity to want to help (to try to protect) others, his willing to rip himself apart and give pieces of himself way until he’s broken open and bloody, with nothing left for himself, all in the name of helping people.
Castiel trusts in Dean. Castiel believes in Dean. Castiel has chosen Dean over all else - over obedience to his orders, his superiors, loyalty to his garrison - and been rewarded by being remade, by being sent back to Dean, so that he can continue to choose him (and help and protect and have faith in him), again and again and again.
And Dean has begun to respond by choosing Castiel, in return, by placing his faith and his trust in Castiel, leaning on the angel and relying on him for guidance, for help, and to just be there for him. Dean is - is treating the angel more and more like an ally, an equal, a helpmeet.
It’s a short step, from belief to devotion. Shorter still, to love.
And Sam’s afraid to open his mouth, not sure if laughter or sobs would emerge.
Castiel is still regarding him with his head tilted, bird-like, the deep furrow down the center of his forehead throwing his eyebrows into sharp relief, blue eyes steady, questioning, confused, expectant. “Sam?” he prompts, after several long moments of silence but for Sam’s ragged breathing.
Eventually, prodded into trying to speak by the steadiness of that gaze, he whispers, brokenly, weakly, “I don’t - I didn’t - just - just - hadn’t realized something. You - you and - and Dean - it’s - it’s - it’s big. Too big. You just - you chose Dean.”
The frown smooths out into a look of calm certainty. Castiel bows his head, eyes slipping shut, his expression beatific, body almost glowing with serenity, with belief, with love. “Yes.”
“He’s choosing you back.”
Blue eyes snap back open, wide with shock, Castiel’s whole body flinching. “What?”
“He’s choosing you back. Do you - do you understand?”
Castiel falters, falls back a step, hands fluttering up towards his chest, confusion and fear and desperate longing chasing themselves across his face like clouds racing across the sun. “I - ”
“Look, I - I won’t pretend to understand how or why, but,” Sam pauses, draws in a deep breath, trying to steady himself, trying not to let the shaking in his hands or the knotted lump in his throat from an unvoiced howl distract him, “but I know what I’ve seen. Okay? You have to - you have to be careful, alright? More careful. Much more. I’ll - I’ll give him time, I’ll be there, I’ll wait it out, whatever I have to, okay? He’s my brother. I won’t - I’m not going to give up. But you - you have to be there, too. No more getting dragged off to Bible bootcamp or beaten up by demons or blown up by archangels or any of that shit, alright? He needs you now, too, and that - that’s only going to grow, that trust in you, that belief, that faith. You understand?”
Castiel looks small, pulled in tightly upon himself, hands pressed above his heart, face crumpled, shockingly wrecked looking, shockingly undone, shockingly human. “I - ”
Sam has to close his eyes against that, take another deep breath, clench his fists tight in an effort to center himself, before he can try to fumble the right words out. “Castiel - Cas. Please. Look, I know we’re not - I know we haven’t - we’re not exactly friends. But he’s my brother. And you - you’re his angel. So you have to promise me, alright? You have to - to try to stay with us, through this. All of this. ’Cause you’re right. We can’t - he can’t - do this alone.” He stares at the angel, unabashedly pleading with his eyes, begging him to understand, to not make him have to come right out and say it. “You need to stay with us. With Dean. To - to - ”
The pained noise that catches at the back of the angel’s throat silences him effortlessly. Castiel looks like he’s in agony, and Sam’s stomach twists sickly within him at the sudden realization that maybe Castiel hadn’t realized, hadn’t understood, hadn’t known, panic roaring through him like a hurricane.
He’s on the verge of stammering out something about how he’s not sure he can be enough for Dean (since he failed him so spectacularly, after Hell) and he can’t trust anyone else to try to help, except Castiel, and he’s afraid of what might happen, if Dean’s forced to try to do this alone, to try to negate the implications of what he’s been trying to say, about how much Dean’s starting to believe in Castiel and how he’s going to need Castiel and how he already relies on Castiel so much that it could very easily break him, if he were to truly lose the angel, when Castiel suddenly snaps his head upwards, wide, panicked eyes peering towards the heavens, as if in answer to a call.
Sam finds himself leaning forward, breath caught painfully in his throat, hoping (incoherently) for something good, for another miracle, nearly as hard as he’s ever hoped or prayed for anything in his life, and then . . . and then Castiel relaxes, hands sliding back down to his sides, falling loosely open, that beatific expression returning to his face, making him seem to glow with a perfection of trust, devotion, faith, loyalty, love. “Yes,” he whispers, low voice profoundly soft but somehow also ineffably certain, echoing with something that sounds, to Sam, like nothing so much as the rustling of feathers, of wings.
“Oh, thank God!”
Blue eyes open, slide down to his face, warm with a mix of gentle chiding and humor. “So I try to do, with every fiber of my being. And so I endeavor to impress upon your brother - and yourself, Sam Winchester - though neither of you seem to hear me aright.”
Sam’s smile is so wide his face hurts with the stretch of it, but he’s too damned relieved to care how maniacal it probably makes him look. “I’ll try. I promise. I’ll try harder to listen - to hear - and to be thankful. Grateful. I am, you know. I didn’t think - I was too busy panicking. And being angry. And afraid. But I know it’s a miracle. That we’re all three of us still here.”
Castiel almost smiles at him. “Good things do happen.”
If anything, Sam’s already too wide grin stretches even wider. “Yes.”
This time, the tilt to Castiel’s head is subtle, more inviting than questioning. “Dean finds this difficult to believe.”
Sam nods agreement, then promises, “I’ll do my best to convince him, if you’ll help me.”
The expression in Castiel’s blue eyes is an odd mixture of desperate hope and gentle good humor. “You believe he cannot stand against us both?”
Earnestly (praying with everything in him, every atom of his being, that he’s speaking the truth), he replies, “I think - I believe - that, with a little faith, we can show him the truth.”
Castiel’s smile is blinding. “Then, Sam Winchester, I believe we shall be strong allies.”
Sam smiles like a loon and offers his hand, returning the gesture when the angel clasps his forearm, instead, gripping strongly, in affirmation, and doesn’t protest when Castiel’s other hand rises before him, two fingers reaching out to alight gently on his forehead, sending him down into a peaceful, dreamless, profoundly restful sleep.
He is still smiling, when he wakes the following morning, and is unsurprised to see Castiel hovering silently by Dean’s bed, watching over his brother while he slumbers, his expression almost painfully tender as he gazes upon Dean’s face, relaxed and peaceful, cheek turned towards and nestling with unquestioning trust against Castiel’s reverent right hand.
Maybe - just maybe - with the three of them working together, now, and with the apparent approval of the Man Upstairs, they can do this, after all.
Whatever happens, he has a feeling it’s going to be worth it, if only for this.
Title: “What Dreams May Come”
Pairing: Mention of past Sam/Ruby. Can most easily be read as preslash Dean/Castiel.
Rating: Uhm, probably a borderline PG-13-ish, maybe (?)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Supernatural, more’s the pity (seeing as how they belong to Kripke and to the show’s writers)! What I do have is an extremely contrary muse that refuses to shut up and leave me alone . . .
Summary: Sam Winchester dreams of how the Apocalypse could have been averted, if only he’d been stronger, smarter, truer to his brother and to himself, and, to his shock, finds his dreams invaded by angels . . . including one who’s carrying more than the usual load of secrets.
Warning: This story is meant to function as a sort of continuation of season five’s first episode, “Sympathy for the Devil,” and will probably be Jossed as soon as next Thursday and the second episode (“Good God, Y’All!”) roll around, but for some reason that didn’t stop the muse from insisting it be written down.
Addendum: Apparently, I fail at editing. I’ve tried to make this story more readable by making the paragraphs shorter, but all that seemed to do was invited even more (over)long paragraphs of dialogue and response. I really do apologize for this! I’m afraid that if I keep tinkering, I’ll just make it that much worse! I’ve done what I can, to keep the paragraphs manageable in length, but I fear readers are going to just have to go for a full screen, for this, to avoid eye strain!
Author’s Notes: 1). I have no idea where this story came from. It hit me Friday, in the middle of the day, at work, and I scribbled madly until I had basically the whole thing written down. It is canon-compliant (as far as I can tell) up through the first episode of season five (and could be considered at least semi-spoilerish for the show up through that episode) and I suppose could be read as (kind of) gen, though frankly the vibe that I got from Castiel the entire time I was writing felt anything but gen.
2). Supernatural is a supremely odd show in that the main characters never seem to have (or to keep) any romantic attachments or possible romantic attachments that aren’t either broken by death or else what some would consider blasphemous/unnatural in some way. This is one of the few ’verses I consider myself a fan of that I don’t tend to seriously ship, for precisely this reason. Until very recently, there was really no one on the show to ship, except the brothers, and, while I totally get the whole “epic love story of Sam and Dean” aspect of the show, honestly, aside for certain possibilities inherent in a Sam who has, for whatever reasons, either chosen to join the demons or whose own code of ethics/morality has been severely warped by addiction to demon blood that he will no longer accept the fact that Dean’s love for him encompasses literally every part of the spectrum except for romantic love, I’ve never been able to see this as a functional romantic ship, in the context of the actual show. The brothers are a couple - are partners - in every sense of the word except the romantic one, and, as much as the show likes to play with the fact that outsiders often read their intensely close relationship as romantic, as they have no other context from their own (fairly) normal lives within which to fit such an obviously strong bond, I honestly don’t think Kripke and the writers mean for viewers to assume that the Winchester boys are actively pursuing an incestuous relationship behind closed doors and in between the scenes of the show.
This isn’t to say that I have anything against the Wincest pairing so often found in the fandom (I am an AU girl at heart and fic that actively resists cultural norms is usually my favorite kind. I’ve read some damned good Wincest fic that barely changed anything in the basic natures of the characters, as presented on the show, and some even better AU where all of the changes were beautifully accounted for by the aspects of the boys’ lives that differed from their lives on the show): it’s just to say that I personally consider it much more of an AU ship, when the pairing is also romantic, than a canon-compliant one. So I’ve never really considered myself to be a shipper of any particular pairing for this show, even though I tend to be a diehard OTPer (and/or whatever one might call a functional relationship with multiple partners) when it comes to my fandoms.
The (fairly) recent appearance of Castiel on the show . . . well, let’s just say that the dynamic of the show began to shift radically, from the moment he and Dean met. There are many fans of the show who have responded to this shift by pairing Dean with Castiel (I’ve seen Dastiel and Destiel both used as portmanteau couple names for the ship); however, I’ve avoided embracing this ship, mainly due to the fact that, so far, it’s (mostly) seemed to be painfully one-sided (and it disturbs the ever living crap out of me to even approach the notion of a God who would deliberately send an angel to a human, all the while knowing that the essential nature of the two beings involved could only result in pain, Dean too scarred by his life/afterlife/second life to even be able to recognize love and faith when it is offered to him and Castiel having no choice - as a creature whose sole purpose is essentially to experience love and to glorify the divine and faithfully praise God by worshiping all of His creation - but to love).
That Castiel is devoted to Dean (perhaps far too much so) I cannot even begin to argue. That Castiel . . . feels something for Dean that he should not (according to his angelic comrades-in-arms and superiors) - something that is, at the very least, highly irregular for an angel to experience towards a mere human - is also glaringly obvious, especially given the outcome of the season four finale. That Dean cannot grasp/comprehend the depth of Castiel’s attachment to him, doesn’t understand such a level of devotion to himself (seeing as how he has no faith in himself and still cannot even begin to believe that he deserved to be saved, is worthy of salvation, of being raised from Hell, much less capable of stopping the end of days) or even seem to have an inkling that there are ramifications to the fact that Castiel, as an angel of the Lord, is essentially built for faith and devotion and following and has willingly chosen to follow Dean, and is also apparently blindly oblivious to the fact that Castiel’s feelings for him have increasingly seemed to have little to do with the fact that Dean is the only one who can stop the Apocalypse and Castiel has been ordered to protect him, so that he will eventually be able to do as has been prophesied and defeat Lucifer, has also seemed pretty damn patently obvious, to me.
So (not to repeat myself or anything, but) I really have no clue where this story came from or why. I’m not sure if my subconscious is just reading something more into the season five opener than was there or if maybe I’m picking up on something that’s actually going to be following through on in some manner for the remainder of the show, but the fact remains that this story was . . . entirely unexpected, and, though it’s canon-compliant up through the season five opener, I have a strong suspicion it’s not going to remain so once the next episode has come out. So . . . readers might want to take this with a grain of salt. (In fact, freakin’ huge handfuls of salt might not be entirely out of line.) Okay?
3). Erhm, despite his ginormous tendency towards stupidly destructive levels of self-centeredness (which is, by the way, the reason I have always primarily been a Dean girl and not a Sam girl), I tend to think that Sam is the more perceptive of the brothers Winchester, when it comes to ferreting out what makes other people tick, if only because his desire to be “normal” has forced him to pay a lot more attention to the supposedly normal folks around him. I get the feeling the only reason Sam hasn’t actually noticed Castiel enough to twig to the truth, on the show, is that, first of all, the demon blood was seriously interfering with his perceptions and ability to process the things going on around him, and, second of all, his guilt and anger and shame are (sound familiar, anyone?) keeping him from truly perceiving himself, much less others around him.
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“What Dreams May Come”
Sam Winchester is dreaming, his mind filled with images of how he wishes things had gone, how he thinks they might have gone, if only he’d been stronger, smarter, truer to his brother and so to himself, had more faith and been less eager to believe the worst of his brother, to choose a demon’s sweet lies instead of Dean’s hard truths.
He pictures how events might have unfolded, if he’d taken the phone message from Dean as the wake up call it should have been, come to his sense in time to stop himself, to realize what was happening, how he was being used, and turned on Ruby, rather than continuing to listen to her lies and killing a demon’s innocent host to drain her body of its demon blood and gain the power necessary to kill Lilith, breaking the final Seal and setting Lucifer free on Earth, kick-starting Armageddon.
He dreams of the enchanted, demon-killing knife in his hand, of the way it would’ve felt, sinking effortlessly into that lying demon bitch and destroying her once and for all, freeing him of her spell. He dreams of speaking the words of exorcism, of the Latin heavy and holy, rolling off his tongue easily, naturally, as naturally as breathing, purging himself of the last of Ruby’s taint, even as he sends the child-killing demon inhabiting that poor nurse back down to Hell. He dreams of calling Dean, of calling out to Dean, to Castiel, of waiting for his brother, of discovering the truth, of going after Lilith not to kill her but just to send her back down to Hell, to trap her deep down again, to protect that last Seal and make sure that Lucifer cannot escape from his prison.
He is desperately imagining what that would have felt like, a victory not only against evil, but also those ridiculously manipulative and cruel angelic dicks, halting Armageddon in its track and leaving all the angels hanging, jonesing for an apocalypse that won’t happen. He can feel his brother’s smile, the weight of his arm slung over his shoulders, pulling him close in a rough hug that means so much more than any mere words ever could, when his dreams are invaded, inverted, turned to a nightmare, the angel Zachariah’s dirty politician’s smarmy voice contemptuously declaring, “You really are a pathetic sack of meat, aren’t you?”
The warm presence of Dean promptly vanishes from his side, the vague presence of a supportive Castiel flickering out of existence like a banished ghost, leaving him alone on a far too familiar empty stretch of highway with the suited dick sneering at him from across the road (face pale and shining and inhuman as a mask), the stolen garish orange car far too small of a barrier between them, especially as Zachariah continues to speak.
“I mean, I like to think I’m fairly open-minded - I like to give people the benefit of a doubt - but this?” The noise the angel makes isn’t quite a laugh (too low and ugly for mirth), but it gets the point across, nonetheless. “I think I’m going to have to side with Uriel on this one. You’re a delusional mud-monkey, Samuel Winchester, and the world would be better off without you in it. Pity we needed you for our plans to succeed. I honestly think it would’ve made poor Uriel’s century - maybe even millennia - to smite you into oblivion.”
Sam’s hands clench automatically, the gesture empty (even at his strongest, he couldn’t do anything to hurt an angel, the powers he had too close to demonic, only making him more vulnerable to them), the taste of dust and ashes in his mouth. He tries to growl threateningly, but the words sound thin, tinny, choked. “Get out of my head. You’re not wanted here.”
Zachariah smirks. “Do I look like I care what you want, Samuel? Do you hear me asking for permission? Castiel may have warded your physical location, but the realm of dreams is open to all. And you, my friend, are predictable, easy enough to find.”
Fury and a far too familiar sense of ignominy makes him take a step forward, around the front of the car, looming up out of the darkness, towering over the angel as if he were a human and could be intimidated by Sam’s greater height, his physical size. “I am no friend of yours!” he snarls, each word bitten off, ugly with the snarled tangle of too many dark emotions, harsh with the memory of Dean’s pain over Castiel’s loss. “Get out of here! I’m warning you - ”
“You forget yourself, Samuel. You’re nothing but a lowly human now - there’s no more demon blood in you, making you powerful, making you useful. We’re done with you. You did what we wanted - everything we wanted - and now we no longer need you. You’re of no more use to us, except possibly as a goad for that brother of yours. Are you willing to help us keep Dean in line? You might be able to earn a place in Heaven, after all, if you’re a good boy and continue being as helpful and obedient as you have been, so far. Normally, I’d say you were going to Hell for sure, when you die - Heaven tends to frown on those who permit demons to walk the Earth, after all - but maybe, if you help us get Dean to accept his role in this and allow Michael in . . . well, perhaps then we can make a deal. Be a good boy, and I might be willing to pull some strings,” the angel offers, his smile glittering, teeth shining like a predator’s display.
Rage and fear and shame flood through Sam in waves, warring for dominance of his body, but in the end it’s that gloating smile that tips him over the edge. “You stay the hell away from me, you manipulative fuck! I’d rather die than help you!”
The angel makes a tsking noise, shaking a finger at him as if he were an unruly, disobedient child. “Now, now, no need for name calling, Samuel. Although if you’re really so keen to die again, I’m sure that can be arranged,” he promises, his grin disturbingly shark-like.
A jolt of pure terror makes his knees wobble uncertainly. “Dean - ”
Zachariah shakes his head. “Your brother can’t help you here, Samuel. And why would he want to, even if he could? You’ve betrayed him at every turn. He no longer trusts you - no longer loves you. You’re nothing but a duty, a burden, to him now. Nothing but another mark of inadequacy, another sign of his failure to live up to his father’s expectations. He’s never been able to save you before. What makes you think he’s going to keep trying, after what you did?”
Weakly, he tries to retort, “My brother - ”
“Even brotherly love has limits, Samuel. And I’m fairly certain you’ve gone far enough to exhaust and shatter all of them. You’ve been so cooperative, after all: turning your back on Jake, someone you knew was an enemy and more than capable of murder, and giving him the perfect opportunity to kill you; letting Dean put himself between you and Lilith and her hellhounds, even after promising you’d save him, and getting in the way of Castiel, when he would have saved Dean, so they could kill your brother and drag his soul off to a part of Hell where time runs so quickly that Alastair and the other demons could break him and he would then break that first Seal almost before we could even finish laying siege to Hell properly, much less reach him; and then choosing to willingly accept Ruby into your life and reshape yourself in the image of the Sam she desired, once Dean was gone. That was the real kicker, you know. The deal-clincher, as it were. If you hadn’t accepted Ruby, we wouldn’t be here. Poor little orphaned Samuel. You just didn’t know how to be alone - didn’t know how to function, except as the center of someone else’s universe - did you?”
The angel neither laughs nor smiles when he asks this question. But then, he doesn’t have to. The tilt of his head - body posture alien, too still, too rigid, all incredulity, all challenging question - says everything required, with no extraneous noise necessary.
Though (unfortunately) that doesn’t keep him from rattling on.
“Never mind what harm your neediness - your selfishness - wrecked. You needed. And so you took. Always, you took. Dean - the Sword of Michael himself - died and went to Hell for your sake, Samuel. Do you realize what a gift that was? What a sacrifice he made? Do you even care what you did, to Castiel - an angel of the Lord - in choosing as you did? Castiel has all but Fallen, for Dean’s sake, because of you and your choices. He went willingly to his death, because of you. He may be back, now, but unless he has God squirreled away in his pocket, he’s never going to be accepted among his own kind again. He’s barred from Heaven now. He may as well have Fallen. And that is entirely your fault.”
Zachariah’s oily voice flows over Sam like dark water, compelling in a way that makes his blood run cold and his hands become clammy with sweat. Castiel is the only angel he’s ever wanted to listen to - the only angel he’s needed (with a distressingly soul-deep ache) to know more about, to be able to question and to understand (as if, by comprehending the angel’s nature, he could not only come to understand how Castiel had succeeded in freeing Dean from Hell, when all of Sam’s efforts failed, but grasp how the feat might be repeated, by Sam, if it were ever to become necessary) - and he’s the only angel Sam’s still interested in talking to, anymore, period. Yet, even though Zachariah’s slimey voice is nothing like the low, powerful rumble of Castiel’s velvet over gravel voice (with that slightly archaic syntax and pitch often almost eerily calm but usually also somehow warm, earnest, even comforting, in a way, despite its almost unnaturally even, tranquil tone), he finds himself unable to turn away, to cease listening, even though what Zachariah is saying is deliberately crafted to harm, every word like acid, eating away at his shields and carefully constructed layers of justifications and excuses and ever present good intentions, shredding him slowly apart, like a cay toying cruelly with a mouse, Zachariah’s lazy smile making it all too clear that he is enjoying himself, all the while.
“Samuel, you choose Ruby freely, of your own accord, and, in choosing her, you damned your world. Dean turned against us, for your sake. Castiel chose to turn against us, for your brother, because Dean couldn’t bear to let you finish becoming the monster you were so eagerly allowing Ruby to refashion you as. This is all your fault. You chose to listen to Ruby and let her tempt and beguile you into accepting the poison of demon blood within you, so you’d be strong enough to eventually break the final Seal yourself, when the time was right. You chose to go out that open door, even though you knew Dean and Robert Singer were only trying to help you, to save you from yourself. You chose to knock your surrogate father unconscious to make good your escape, so you could get to that little demon slut of yours and get your next fix of demon blood. You chose the addiction over your family, your friends, your kin. I will very surprised if Lucifer doesn’t earnestly seek to reward you,” Zachariah continues, his smile sickle-sharp and cold as tempered steel, “for such diligent treachery, such faithful betrayal, on his behalf. My brother is many things, but one thing the Morning Star does not believe in is leaving any debt unpaid. He will come for you at some point, Samuel. As swiftly as though called, he will come for you.”
Zachariah laughs (a little scuddering of dry leaves, rattling like age-desiccated bones in the first killing wind of winter), and Sam shudders, falls back a step, shoulders tucked in tight to his body, head bowed, instinctively trying to protect himself, to make himself smaller, less of a target. The eyes that follow him are frozen, barren moons, the scything smile flashing beneath them a weapon any reaper would be proud to claim. If it wouldn’t be worse, to hear and to not see the source of those poisonous words, Sam would shut his eyes. But he’s more than half afraid that, if he looks away, Zachariah will slip his skin, abandon his vessel, reveal himself as something vast and horrifically bright and, pitiless as ever, open mouth and eyes and blaze forth at him and blast him away to nothing. So he stands, quailing, trying to summon anger (trying to shield himself from further harm with his fury, distract Zachariah from his attacks by finding the strength to rage at him) and mostly failing. And he listens, helplessly, until he is drowning and freezing and burning all at once within the insidious grasp of Zachariah’s bile, as, lovingly, malignantly, the angel smugly continues to recite Sam’s sins.
“You chose to call on your powers in the fight with your brother, so you would be stronger and faster and able to defeat him, and then you chose to go out that door, to Ruby, despite his warning. You chose to bleed out that demon-infested nurse, instead of exorcizing the demon and saving the host’s life, so that you could drink all of that demon blood - and I’m rather proud of myself, for the changes I had made to your brother’s recording, altering his pathetic attempt at apologizing for naming you truly, as a monster, as you goaded him so nicely into doing, into a warning of what amounted to a declaration of war. The shame and the fear turned to anger so quickly, made it so easy for you to choose to keep going along with Ruby and continue to pollute and change yourself with more demon blood. You were so eager to believe the worst of yourself, by believing the worst of your brother and his opinion of you! Almost I think you would have chosen the same, even if all that had been done was to keep his message from ever reaching you! - even though you knew better, knew that it was wrong, knew that it would change you and there would be no going back. And then you chose to ignore Dean at the door, in the convent, even though he was yelling for you, pleading for you to stop. You chose to push harder, until you killed Lilith, even though you could feel the changes in you. In short, you chose every bad thing that you could, every step along that dark path taken of your own free will, doing everything of your own accord necessary to bring about Lucifer’s rising. Why ruin such a perfect track record now? I doubt anything you could do could possibly earn you redemption.”
Sam desperately wants to be angry, to lash out at the angel, to attack him (it’s safer, to be on the offensive. If he’s attacking, if he’s fighting, he’s not standing still for the blow, for the blade), even though a part of him - a really big part - can’t help but agree with everything that Zachariah is saying. He let Lucifer out of Hell, for God’s sake! How is he even supposed to process that, much less make up for it, make it right again? As Dean said, sorry just doesn’t even begin to cut it. Unless they can stop it, it’s the freakin’ end of days. And no matter what Dean thinks, it’s really all Sam’s fault. Hell, if this smug s.o.b. is telling truth, it’s even his fault the angels couldn’t get to Dean in time to save him from having to go to Hell, much less shed blood there and break the first Seal! Zachariah’s right, and that’s the real bitch of the thing. Sam did all of those things; he made all of those bad choices; he caused this; he freed Lucifer. That’s the simple truth. Yet, somehow, it doesn’t keep him from wanting to permanently wipe that self-satisfied gloating expression off of the angelic asshole’s face. So, snarling his defiance, he grates out, “Don’t count me out until the end. It’s not over yet. We aren’t going to let you win.”
Zachariah just smirks again, an edge of scoff to it that makes Sam’s blood boil. “We’ve already won. Your brother won’t let Lucifer win this. He’s too much of a righteous man for that. He might as well go ahead and give in now. He’s going to agree to act as Michael’s vessel, sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time.”
His fears momentarily forgotten, Sam takes half a dozen steps forward, up and across the edge of the road, crowding closer to the angel, before he can stop himself. “Why you - ”
The angel’s scornful, gloating smile turns beatific, deadly dangerous. “Are you raising your hand to me, Samuel?”
Another thread of control snaps, and he presses closer, shouting, “My name is Sam!”
“Samuel is your given name. Or would you prefer the demonic form now . . . Samael?”
He sees red at that - literally, his vision washing out alarmingly under the sweeping press of blood-soaked, pulse-pounding, whole body rage, something about the experience entirely too familiar, devastatingly, terrifyingly so, almost like those weirdly stretched taffy slow moments of painfully juxtaposed clarity and whited-out fog, just before he broke the final Seal - and he’s going for the angel before he even realizes he’s moving again.
Before he can do more than start to reach out to grab him (to press his hands close around that neck and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, throttle that expression of smug superiority and vengeful gloating and unbridled scorn off of the angel’s face forever), though, there’s a flash of actinic light, so luridly white that, for a moment, all Sam can think of Pamela and what it must have been like, to see something so awesome, so terrible, that it could burn the eyes right out of their sockets, the painful intensity of it making Sam flinch back reflexively. It only lasts for a few heartbeats, and, as the luminescence fades, Castiel appears between them, filling the space that the dazzling light had occupied, right hand outstretched, palm planted solidly, shockingly, against Sam’s chest, right over his heart, holding him effortlessly back.
“Stop!”
The order is thunderous, something of Castiel’s true angelic voice somehow bleeding through to that of his human vessel (except, is it truly a vessel anymore, if the archangels killed Jimmy, ripped him out of that body by blowing the flesh apart, in the act of destroying Castiel, and Castiel has somehow been . . . what, remade, reborn, refashioned out of the ether? The thought is confusing enough to make his head ache, even more than the edge of Castiel’s angelic voice), making Sam flinch back from the rumbling crash of noise and strange undertow of painfully high pitched squealing grind (like steal screaming down ice, torturously modulated). Sam’s still trying to blink away the afterimage of whiteness when Castiel turns away, hand dropping (leaving a spot of not quite painfully scorching heat burning against Sam’s chest, as though a branding iron heated merely to scalding and not to searing has been pressed there and not the hand of someone he knows, of a human vessel holding an angel who died in order to help Dean try to save him, to stop him from starting the Apocalypse), his other hand full of that strange, glimmering bright silver weapon that can kill angels.
“You are not welcome here. The Winchesters have been claimed by Heaven and are under my protection, in His name. Do not seek to return here or to trespass in the dreams of Dean Winchester. We will contact you, if words must be exchanged. Now begone!”
Zachariah makes a placating gesture with his hands, his smile suddenly weak, nervous. “Now, Castiel, let’s not be hasty! Aside from the possibility of using him as leverage against his brother or putting his body to use as a vessel, this boy is no longer of import to either Heaven or Hell. He’s done as he was meant to do. He made his choice and he cannot unmake it. His role in this is written, now, is sealed, is decided, is over. Don’t you think it best to - ?”
“I said that the Winchesters have both been claimed, that they are both under my protection, in His name, and so they are. Dean has need of Sam, and, so long as that remains true, he will remain a part of this. Now begone! Or do you wish to test whether this weapon’s efficacy carries over to the realm of dreams?” Castiel only demands, low voice entirely human now but quite possibly even more frightening than before, the promise of unrelenting violence in each word an even more naked threat than the weapon shining in the angel’s former angel’s? Remade angel’s? Did Castiel actually Fall, when he chose Dean over his superiors’ orders, or does his miraculous reappearance, after being exploded by those archangels, prove that he - and, by extension, Dean - had been in the right, all along? Perhaps more importantly, can the angels really bar him from Heaven, if he’s in the right?) hand.
Zachariah’s face closes, hardens, mouth turning down in a petulantly angry scowl, dark eyes shining with menace. “This isn’t over. You overstep your bounds, Castiel, and, one day, you will be called to account for all that you’ve done, all that you’ve taken on yourself!”
Castiel doesn’t quite smile, but his mouth moves in a manner that suggests the faintest sliver of a razor-sharp smile, and, even though the expression isn’t directed at him (and Castiel is an ally, a sort of friend - he chose Dean over orders, he died for Dean, to give him a chance to get to Sam - so surely to God he’s not going to turn on them now, even if Dean was too late to stop Sam from breaking the final Seal and now they’re going to have to stop the Apocalypse and defeat Lucifer after all), Sam almost falls back a step in a reflexive bid to gain enough distance to protect himself from attack. “I may be called to account for the things that I have taken upon myself, Zachariah, but it will not be by your or yours. And you would do well to keep in mind the possibility that you may just as easily find yourself called to account for the things you have chosen to do, my brother. Now go. Begone from this place and seek to trouble the Winchesters no more!”
Silently, a look of almost constipated rage on his face, Zachariah moves backwards several paces - the motion a sort of glide, more as if he were being pushed than stepping back willingly - and vanishes in a flare of white light somehow colder and less glorious than the light in which Castiel arrived.
As soon as the light has faded and they are alone, Castiel turns to him, blue eyes searching, worried, sympathetic. “Sam Winchester. Are you well?”
Sam just stares at him helplessly for several moments, torn between laughing and crying. “Am I - ? No, Castiel, I’m not all that well, as a matter of fact. I’m pretty much the opposite of well. I got hopped up on demon blood and killed Lilith - breaking the final Seal - and let Lucifer out of Hell. My brother’s never going to trust me again and I can’t even blame him. I may never be ‘well’ again.”
Castiel holds himself as he generally does - an odd mixture of sheer gracefulness and absolute stillness, like a hawk on a perch, frozen in place but able to unfurl strong wings and hurl upwards into the heavens to soar in a heartbeat - and tilts his head in that odd avian fashion of his that, for Sam, never ever fails to drive home the fact that he is an angel, not human (despite how human he may otherwise seem), confusion furrowing his brow. “Your brother has already forgiven you. It is himself he no longer trusts. Give him time. You will see.”
Sam can’t help but scoff. “Dude, I think I know Dean pretty well. If he - ”
“There are but a handful of names graven on Dean Winchester’s heart. Yours is writ largest and carved deepest. That has been so for many years and it is not likely to change at any time soon.”
There’s an oddness to the angel’s voice, an extra roughness in his tone, and it takes Sam a few beats to realize that it’s a mixture of wistful longing and bitterness, forcing the pitch of Castiel’s voice lower. He blinks, startled. “Do you - would you like that to change?”
If anything, the angel’s stiff posture becomes even more rigid, his already tranquil and remote expression becoming even more closed off. “Your question is irrelevant to the matter at hand. Did Zachariah harm you?”
Sam frowns, not appreciating the way that Castiel’s trying to dodge the question but not entirely sure he has the right to push. “Do you count mental and emotional torture as hurt?” Castiel just blinks at him, face solemn, questioning. Sighing, Sam clarifies by asking, “Is it true? Did I get in your way, when the hellhounds came for Dean? Am I the reason why you couldn’t save him from being dragged off to Hell?”
Castiel blinks again, looks down, tucks the weapon away somewhere under his ever-present trench coat, and shoves his hands into the coat’s pockets. “It is as much the fault of the garrison, for being unprepared. We knew Dean was the one. But our leaders were working against us. They wanted the Seals to be broken. They wanted this war. They would have gotten their way, even if you had not been there at the moment of your brother’s death.”
Sam’s frown becomes an outright scowl, unhappiness and anger writ large in the deepening lines of his face, though he looks down as his shoulders round into a hunch and his arms reflexively wrap around his stomach, as though to protect himself against a coming blow. “So in other words, it is my fault. All of this is my fault!”
Castiel’s gaze snaps back to his face, blue eyes intently focused. “You are not hearing me. These events were beyond your control. You could not have stopped what happened. Zachariah and the others would have done anything and everything necessary, to ensure the rising of the Morning Star. You should be focusing on how to stop the war, now that it has begun, not agonizing over ways in which you believe it could have been prevented from beginning. The past is past. It cannot be changed.”
Sam’s scowl only deepens, hazel eyes glittering catlike as he tilts his head so he can look back up at Castiel without having to straighten up.”Is that what you told Dean about Hell? Because I gotta tell ya, Cas, for a freakin’ angel of the Lord, you aren’t all that good at giving comfort. Just saying the past is past and can’t be changed, like it doesn’t even matter, doesn’t make things better! I still did all of those things and it’s still my fault Lucifer got out and - ”
Even though Sam’s voice is growing louder with every syllable, winding up to an hysterical pitch, Castiel’s voice cuts across it effortlessly, smoothly. “You are not hearing me, Sam Winchester. I do not mean to belittle your pain. But I do mean to say that you must be strong enough to move past it. Dean needs you now, more than he ever has. You must be there for him. He cannot hope to do this alone.”
Sam’s rounded shoulders pull in so tightly upon themselves and pull him so far down that he nearly looks doubled at the waist. “But all I do is hurt him. I can’t seem to do anything right. Maybe it’d be better if I weren’t - ”
“Sam. You are Dean’s brother. He chose Hell, for your sake. He has defied angels, for your sake. He loves you. He has need of you. You will be there for him. Do you understand me?”
It’s not just a teeth-jarring screech-edged whine of power blurring away the edges of Castiel’s velvet-gravel voice, this time: the words are a roar of solid power, syllables punching into him like blows, and Sam shudders as though being beaten, hands clapped to his ears as if such fragile barriers could protect the drums of his ears from being shattered. When the echoes have faded, he looks up, blinking blearily and squinting as if against a too bright light, and breathes, disjointedly, too shocked for coherency, “Jesus Christ, you - you - Dean - God, Cas!”
Castiel’s frowning so deeply that the blue of his eyes keeps vanishing in the shadows on his face. He looks taller, somehow, hands no longer in his pockets bur rather clenched tightly at his sides, body drawn up rigidly tight, as though seconds away from attack (or at least reaching out and giving Sam a good enough shaking to make the teeth rattle in his head. Which - alright, that might not be the worst idea, considering he’s bordering hysterical just now, but still - ! The idea of the angel touching him again, with such purpose, makes his skin crawl in a way not entirely unpleasant, which in turn makes him feel strangely disloyal - almost ashamed - as though he shouldn’t be thinking that it might not be so bad to have an angel of the Lord like Castiel laying hands on him, as if that would be yet another betrayal, yet another deliberate turning away from Dean, and that . . . that is just so damn bizarre that it’s no wonder he’s having a hard time catching his breath, much less stringing together words enough to make a full sentence!).
“Dean chose you as his trusted shield-mate, as his second, long ago, Sam. Why does this prospect disturb you?” Castiel’s voice is back to normal levels, the hint of brightness leaking through his skin gone, confusion evident in every word. “I do not understand your dismay. Your brother is not your keeper, but he is your protector and he has been your partner in this fight for many years, now. Have you not chosen him, again, as well?”
“That’s not - it isn’t - not a choice. Not an issue. You - you - ”
A hint of impatience leaks into the confusion, giving the raspy deep voice a hard edge. “What of me? I would have thought my choice clear, by this time.”
“Exactly. You’re - you - but you didn’t Fall. You didn’t, and - and - the archangels, they destroyed you, but you’re - you’re - here, and - and - I guess He wants you to - but I thought angels didn’t - that you couldn’t - ”
The head tilt returns with a vengeance, blue eyes glimmering at him almost warily. “Sam. I am having difficulty following your train of thought.”
The words - the accusation - You’re in love with my brother, Castiel! crowd into his consciousness, poise themselves on the tip of his tongue, make him choke on a giggle that he’s pretty sure would not only be inappropriate but would lead to howls of laughter that would disintegrate into sobs, because really, honestly, Dean? His brother, Dean? Castiel - an angel of the freakin’ Lord - and Dean? (A voice in the back of his head, a small gibbering remnant of the person he tried so hard to be, at Stanford - normal, respectable, student, ignorant of the dangers lurking in the dark corners - half laughs and half howls, circling endlessly around Chuck and literary symmetry and the symbolic appropriateness of it all, to have had Sam partnered off with a demon while Dean gets chosen by an angel.)
It’s so obvious now that Sam doesn’t understand how he didn’t see it before. Castiel’s been choosing and rechoosing Dean ever since he brought him back up from Hell. Zachariah and those other angelic pricks (and God, how wrong is it that the methods of those assholes seem to have more in common with the demons they’re supposed to be fighting against? He still can’t get over that. Angels should be better than this, dammit! They should - they should be more like Anna, more like Castiel, more like Dean, even!) And Dean . . . Dean’s been moving closer and closer to acceptance of the fact that Castiel chose him and isn’t going to stop choosing him since the day he stopped fighting so hard against the idea that Castiel actually is an angel. Cas believed in him enough to go against his superiors, enough to deliberately put himself in harm’s way and to allow those archangels to tear him to pieces, to destroy him (vessel and all), to try to give Dean time to get to Sam, to stop Sam and stop the breaking of the final Seal. Castiel did it for Dean - not because he thought it was the right thing to do or because he thought Sam deserved another chance or could still be saved - because Dean asked him to help and he couldn’t bear to refuse him, couldn’t stand to have Dean turn away from him in disgust and despair because he couldn’t bring himself to disobey orders. He did it solely for Dean.
And Sam saw the look of desolation in Dean’s eyes - the same despairing look in his eyes when he spoke of the things he did, in Hell; the same bleakness and self-hatred after Castiel regained Jimmy’s body and, instead of acting like himself and explaining what had happened or at least thanking them for attempting to guard his host, spoke sharply to Dean of not serving him and turned away; the same agony of failure and, worse, expectation, behind the physical pain, when Sam chose to go out that door, to Ruby: only worse somehow, magnified, sharpened, deepened - when they got to Chuck’s and one of Castiel’s vessel’s teeth was found caught in Chuck’s hair.
Sam saw the grief, the anguish, the sheer exhaustion that made his brother pull in on himself and start shutting down, retreating behind his masks, like after - after Dad. And then he saw the hope and soul-deep relief flash like lightning (like the same glow around Castiel, when his angelic form tries to push itself over the edges of the human vessel containing it) through Dean’s eyes, when Castiel miraculously reappeared, to protect them from Zachariah and his unquestioning angelic drones. Hell, he even saw the way Dean’s body automatically inclined towards Castiel, as though to lean against him - something he never does, not willingly, not even with Sam, not unless he absolutely has to, his body too wrecked to even pretend to be able to stand on his own - he was just too freaked out and pissed off and worried to really register it or what it meant.
Dean is starting to choose Castiel back, the same way Castiel has already chosen him.
And that . . . that is just a little bit too big - one earth-shattering revelation too many - for him, just now. Sam’s still trying to process Ruby’s betrayal, and his idiocy, and the fact that the freakin’ Devil is out of Hell now directly on account of his stupidity (God, he’s like Judas, he’s worse than Judas, he turned against his actual brother, chose a demon over Dean, and what the fuck does that say about him, about what’s wrong with him? Maybe those angelic pricks were right, after all, and he should’ve been stopped. Maybe - maybe Dad . . . except, Dean chose him. Dean believed in him. Dean - Dean still needs him, still wants him there, according to Castiel, is just pushing him away because he’s too busy blaming himself for being unable to save Sam to stop and consider the fact that this is really Sam’s fault, not his, no matter what he may say about it. It’s like - like after Hell. After Castiel brought him back and he kept acting like he was fine and didn’t remember anything. He’s still blaming himself. Still trying to protect Sam. And how completely fucked up wrong is that, that Dean could still blame himself for everything when it’s so patently obvious that it’s Sam’s fault, not his?).
Sam’s not sure he can handle this, too, on top of all that. Not yet, anyway. It’s - too big. Way too damned big. Dean’s little fling with Anna, that was one thing. She was essentially human - Fallen to Earth, reborn as human, no Grace whatsoever - and it was like all the other meaningless flings Dean’s ever had, on a case, with someone in trouble, someone in need of a little human comfort. This - this thing, with Castiel, it’s not about comfort. It’s not about Dean and his never freakin’ ending capacity to want to help (to try to protect) others, his willing to rip himself apart and give pieces of himself way until he’s broken open and bloody, with nothing left for himself, all in the name of helping people.
Castiel trusts in Dean. Castiel believes in Dean. Castiel has chosen Dean over all else - over obedience to his orders, his superiors, loyalty to his garrison - and been rewarded by being remade, by being sent back to Dean, so that he can continue to choose him (and help and protect and have faith in him), again and again and again.
And Dean has begun to respond by choosing Castiel, in return, by placing his faith and his trust in Castiel, leaning on the angel and relying on him for guidance, for help, and to just be there for him. Dean is - is treating the angel more and more like an ally, an equal, a helpmeet.
It’s a short step, from belief to devotion. Shorter still, to love.
And Sam’s afraid to open his mouth, not sure if laughter or sobs would emerge.
Castiel is still regarding him with his head tilted, bird-like, the deep furrow down the center of his forehead throwing his eyebrows into sharp relief, blue eyes steady, questioning, confused, expectant. “Sam?” he prompts, after several long moments of silence but for Sam’s ragged breathing.
Eventually, prodded into trying to speak by the steadiness of that gaze, he whispers, brokenly, weakly, “I don’t - I didn’t - just - just - hadn’t realized something. You - you and - and Dean - it’s - it’s - it’s big. Too big. You just - you chose Dean.”
The frown smooths out into a look of calm certainty. Castiel bows his head, eyes slipping shut, his expression beatific, body almost glowing with serenity, with belief, with love. “Yes.”
“He’s choosing you back.”
Blue eyes snap back open, wide with shock, Castiel’s whole body flinching. “What?”
“He’s choosing you back. Do you - do you understand?”
Castiel falters, falls back a step, hands fluttering up towards his chest, confusion and fear and desperate longing chasing themselves across his face like clouds racing across the sun. “I - ”
“Look, I - I won’t pretend to understand how or why, but,” Sam pauses, draws in a deep breath, trying to steady himself, trying not to let the shaking in his hands or the knotted lump in his throat from an unvoiced howl distract him, “but I know what I’ve seen. Okay? You have to - you have to be careful, alright? More careful. Much more. I’ll - I’ll give him time, I’ll be there, I’ll wait it out, whatever I have to, okay? He’s my brother. I won’t - I’m not going to give up. But you - you have to be there, too. No more getting dragged off to Bible bootcamp or beaten up by demons or blown up by archangels or any of that shit, alright? He needs you now, too, and that - that’s only going to grow, that trust in you, that belief, that faith. You understand?”
Castiel looks small, pulled in tightly upon himself, hands pressed above his heart, face crumpled, shockingly wrecked looking, shockingly undone, shockingly human. “I - ”
Sam has to close his eyes against that, take another deep breath, clench his fists tight in an effort to center himself, before he can try to fumble the right words out. “Castiel - Cas. Please. Look, I know we’re not - I know we haven’t - we’re not exactly friends. But he’s my brother. And you - you’re his angel. So you have to promise me, alright? You have to - to try to stay with us, through this. All of this. ’Cause you’re right. We can’t - he can’t - do this alone.” He stares at the angel, unabashedly pleading with his eyes, begging him to understand, to not make him have to come right out and say it. “You need to stay with us. With Dean. To - to - ”
The pained noise that catches at the back of the angel’s throat silences him effortlessly. Castiel looks like he’s in agony, and Sam’s stomach twists sickly within him at the sudden realization that maybe Castiel hadn’t realized, hadn’t understood, hadn’t known, panic roaring through him like a hurricane.
He’s on the verge of stammering out something about how he’s not sure he can be enough for Dean (since he failed him so spectacularly, after Hell) and he can’t trust anyone else to try to help, except Castiel, and he’s afraid of what might happen, if Dean’s forced to try to do this alone, to try to negate the implications of what he’s been trying to say, about how much Dean’s starting to believe in Castiel and how he’s going to need Castiel and how he already relies on Castiel so much that it could very easily break him, if he were to truly lose the angel, when Castiel suddenly snaps his head upwards, wide, panicked eyes peering towards the heavens, as if in answer to a call.
Sam finds himself leaning forward, breath caught painfully in his throat, hoping (incoherently) for something good, for another miracle, nearly as hard as he’s ever hoped or prayed for anything in his life, and then . . . and then Castiel relaxes, hands sliding back down to his sides, falling loosely open, that beatific expression returning to his face, making him seem to glow with a perfection of trust, devotion, faith, loyalty, love. “Yes,” he whispers, low voice profoundly soft but somehow also ineffably certain, echoing with something that sounds, to Sam, like nothing so much as the rustling of feathers, of wings.
“Oh, thank God!”
Blue eyes open, slide down to his face, warm with a mix of gentle chiding and humor. “So I try to do, with every fiber of my being. And so I endeavor to impress upon your brother - and yourself, Sam Winchester - though neither of you seem to hear me aright.”
Sam’s smile is so wide his face hurts with the stretch of it, but he’s too damned relieved to care how maniacal it probably makes him look. “I’ll try. I promise. I’ll try harder to listen - to hear - and to be thankful. Grateful. I am, you know. I didn’t think - I was too busy panicking. And being angry. And afraid. But I know it’s a miracle. That we’re all three of us still here.”
Castiel almost smiles at him. “Good things do happen.”
If anything, Sam’s already too wide grin stretches even wider. “Yes.”
This time, the tilt to Castiel’s head is subtle, more inviting than questioning. “Dean finds this difficult to believe.”
Sam nods agreement, then promises, “I’ll do my best to convince him, if you’ll help me.”
The expression in Castiel’s blue eyes is an odd mixture of desperate hope and gentle good humor. “You believe he cannot stand against us both?”
Earnestly (praying with everything in him, every atom of his being, that he’s speaking the truth), he replies, “I think - I believe - that, with a little faith, we can show him the truth.”
Castiel’s smile is blinding. “Then, Sam Winchester, I believe we shall be strong allies.”
Sam smiles like a loon and offers his hand, returning the gesture when the angel clasps his forearm, instead, gripping strongly, in affirmation, and doesn’t protest when Castiel’s other hand rises before him, two fingers reaching out to alight gently on his forehead, sending him down into a peaceful, dreamless, profoundly restful sleep.
He is still smiling, when he wakes the following morning, and is unsurprised to see Castiel hovering silently by Dean’s bed, watching over his brother while he slumbers, his expression almost painfully tender as he gazes upon Dean’s face, relaxed and peaceful, cheek turned towards and nestling with unquestioning trust against Castiel’s reverent right hand.
Maybe - just maybe - with the three of them working together, now, and with the apparent approval of the Man Upstairs, they can do this, after all.
Whatever happens, he has a feeling it’s going to be worth it, if only for this.